


Dulce Compañia

by frenchxkiss



Category: Daft Punk
Genre: Eggs, Label AU, M/M, Philosophy, Teacher-Student Relationship, mentor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-22
Updated: 2016-12-22
Packaged: 2018-09-11 01:57:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8949115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frenchxkiss/pseuds/frenchxkiss
Summary: A young Guy-manuel and eager-to-teach Crydamoure discuss the different ways an unchanged object can exist when you consider that reality can differ from person to person.sfw, Guy-manuel pov (mostly), eggs with a side of existentialism.





	

"Darling Guillaume, grace me with your presence for a quick moment?"

The man beckons, inviting warmly with a graceful tone you've come to recognize as a safe place. "Yes?" you speak before reaching him, the sound of your voice somewhat faint to him as you turn to enter the kitchen, your response lingering in the hallway.  
The windows are open. The air is fresh, clean and cool. The breeze is swimming in, tugging ever so gently at a lock of the man's hair, golden strands hovering for a moment before falling back into place.

You are seventeen years young, your skin is tight around your neck and your wrists feel no pain. This is your apartment. There are fruits on the counter, some of them you don't remember buying. That's because you didn't. The red grapes- next to your preferred white grapes- are his. There are also slices of watermelon in the fridge, along with some strawberries and a small jar of cherries that seems to never empty.  
He hardly ever bakes anything and when he does, it's always something that can be eaten cool. Nothing too warm for him, though you've seen that hot chocolate is an exception to that rule. He loves fruit and cold drinks, has a terrible sweet tooth and is absolutely _shameless_ about it. He smiles often and when he laughs, you feel he is the very embodiment of joy.

You brush a lock behind your ear before he turns from the counter quickly to face you. You both have similar hair; his is a few inches longer, curls less than yours, and is a visibly lighter shade than your dark mane. Yours is shorter, curling inwards as it rests on your shoulders.  
The man gazes into you; he is never afraid of eye contact. You aren't either, but given that you consider him in many ways a _stranger_ still, it's slightly unnerving, and gives you the impression that he has a certain power that he well knows cannot be subdued. _Confidence_ some would call it. As for facial similarities, there are some, not that they're very pronounced. You both have light eyes, but yours are a deep blue with chestnut and chocolate overtones, often appearing emerald green under certain lighting; much more earthly than his- an almost unnatural, true green that shines harlequin under dim lighting, like a cat's eyes glowing under the moonlight.  
He seems particularly happy right now, and you can't tell if his cheerful demeanor (though not unusual) is him being in an especially playful mood today or a hint of what's to come. That is to say, another lesson.

"Hold this egg for me, will you?"

You do as you're told, looking around in an attempt to distract yourself while you wait. You don't know what you're waiting for exactly, but you assume it will only take a minute. The kitchen is illuminated completely, very bright. It's a lovely day, sunny and perfect for a walk, you think. Maybe you'll go out later.  
You hold the egg for exactly five seconds before realizing the man is _staring_ at you- smiling beautifully with what some might mistake as bedroom eyes; but you know better.

"...What?" you ask, your voice small suddenly. A smile slowly tugs the corners of your lips and you resist, both out of embarrassment and stubbornness; you don't want to submit so easily. It's quite noticeable- you couldn't hide it well, but he isn't offended in the slightest. You are, after all, so very young. He _expects_ you to have this kind of- rather charming- behavior, and accepts it fully.

"Feel it."

He speaks quietly but with sparkling, eager eyes, like he's about to let you in on some grand, fascinating secret, and you are reminded of a dear friend. Being a memory you visit often, it takes half a second to remember it clearly- your best friend- running towards you, tie bouncing on his chest. He wears his school uniform, it's lunchtime, and he is eager to tell you how he's found the perfect spot to relax (or study, if needed) during this hour. _"You both make for a funny sight, you know!"_ you'd have friends tell you often. You weren't very eager to admit it then, but it's true. You can picture it now- tall, lanky, grinning class president next to short, grumpy, quiet you. Ah, the memories. You've both been busy, settling into lives completely independent from the help of your parents. You make a mental note to call him when you have the time.

You stroke the egg with your thumb, gazing at it intently. There's something the man wants you to know and he's not going to give you the answer on a silver platter- it's not that easy, you've learned that by now. He's played games like this before where he begins a conversation suddenly- often starting with an odd, seemingly-out-of-place question- with the intention of teaching you something.  
He is strict in his belief that answers should not be given but _found_ , and if one wishes to teach something, one should guide the other to help them understand, but never _lead_ the way. Leading would result in the thought that lessons are a destination- and that isn't the case at all. To simply _give_ you an answer is a sin to this man, and maybe this is why you've learned so much with him.  
You want your answer to please him. Yes, and that may be difficult- because at this point, there is simply no way for you to know what the correct answer could possibly _be_.  
No matter. You'll have to work with what you have at the moment. That being, not much.

"It's... smooth."

To that, he smiles with his eyes. You don't know it, but he's very happy with your answer. Partly because he never asked a question in the first place, and your attempt to answer something that has yet to be asked is, in his opinion, a sign of a good student- one willing to learn.

"Mm. It is." He takes the egg from your hands, holding it a few inches away from his chin and observing it for the entirety of two seconds before turning his gaze to you.  
His face betrays the look of a father determined to put his son on the right path; a look that says "I will not let you go until you have understood". But he's too gentle for that. You know he'd let you go if you ever spoke of wanting to stop a lesson. Not that that's happened before. He's always so _tactful_ that you never have reason to feel uncomfortable around him. You appreciate it; you're not terribly tolerant of tactless people, even if you do feel quite guilty about it, especially when they do seem to be trying. C'est la vie.

He is silent for a short moment, his voice replaced by the distant laughter of children playing outside. It's then that you notice the cherry.  
The single red fruit, small and unassuming, sat just behind him on the counter, closer to the window than him, and you wonder for a moment if he was planning to eat it before calling you to talk. You're vaguely alarmed at the thought, for cherries aren't something he will eat often, and you've noticed that they seem to be reserved for what appear to be _private_ special occasions- he will sometimes eat a single cherry while deep in thought, staring out the window (you've caught him people-watching a few times like this), and you wonder if he was thinking about _you_ this time, and dropped the cherry to have some sort of urgent talk with you.  
However, that doesn't seem to be the case, so you push the thought aside, unconsciously replacing it with one of your favorite memories of the man- _"Cherries are dangerous,"_ you recall him explaining one day, _"they are toxic in their excessive sweetness. Eat no more than two a week, or you'll be taken by the cherry man!"_ You never forgot that conversation, although its whimsical charm isn’t the reason why- it drilled itself into your memory the moment you realized two very interesting things. The first being that by "cherry man", he meant the _Devil_ , and the second being more of a _doubt _than anything else- cherries are not that sweet. His argument would make more sense if he was talking about cake, for example. Whenever this memory surfaces, there is always a vague sense of confusion and _wariness_ hidden just under the more pleasant feelings you prefer having. Nevertheless, the general sentiment in his words is that excess can be detrimental to the soul._ "Greed is a terrible sin, you know."_ And this is why the cherry jar never empties.

"Hellooo..."  
Oh- goodness, he's waving his hand in front of you. You blink a few times, responding with a rather ungraceful _’Huh?'_ , blushing slightly from the embarrassment.

"Where did you go?" He's chuckling as he asks, and you can feel the warmth on your cheeks.

"Ah, nowhere."

He smirks with a small _“hmph”_ , before giving you a proper smile, pausing to let you come back to him fully before continuing, egg held up in his hand:

"What is the egg now, Guillaume?"

You look at it, held between his middle, index finger and thumb. _What is the egg now_. What a strange question. Of course, it isn't as strange coming from him; you don't think you'll ever get used to his odd lessons, but his behavior when teaching you things nobody else would is something you've come to _expect_ by now.  
What _is_ the egg? It isn't an elephant, it isn't square. There are many things it isn't, sure. You search in your head for a possible answer, one he'll deem _correct_ , 'till you decide on-

"It's nothing."

-a dishonest one. For someone who's not very tolerant of tactlessness, that sure was, well, tactless. Why did you say that? Insincere and blurted out without any thought. He takes notice immediately, and you wordlessly apologize profusely, combing your fingers through your hair and avoiding eye contact.

He's much older than you. He's also wise- wiser than most people his age, you think. Whatever the man wants to teach you, it's obviously something he already fully understands. The fact that he _knows_ more than you however, does not mean you are below him; he never wants you to do anything for the sake of pleasing him and what you've done just now is exactly that. He can, however, sympathize- he's a perfectionist himself and understands the desire to do things right. There is a time and place for everything though; an _order_ , and what you've shown now is good intention _misplaced_ , which is a potentially dangerous thing.  
He has no concerns regarding the acceptance of chaos when it is necessary, that isn't the problem. The problem is that your dishonesty is chaos in a situation that warrants order.

"I don't want you to _try_ to please me, Guillaume. I _welcome_ incorrect answers so long as they are entirely honest."

There is a pause, and he sighs before remembering just how young you are. He realizes you might have accepted him as a parental figure or mentor of sorts by now, and it's an honor, really- you're a bright boy and he enjoys your company very much.  
Your accepting him as a parental figure however, does not give him the right to scold you; no, that would horrible. If you will learn, it'll only be because you will allow him to teach you. He must never force his way into you.

"Look at me." His voice is firm but gentle.  
You hesitate for a second, but whatever you were feeling is gone the moment you notice his expression- warm and inviting; "try again" it says. You are willing to now.

"You can see the egg, can you not? Surely it isn't _nothing_ if it's still a part of your reality. You see an egg, and that still makes it one."  
He hides it behind his back, and you are confused at the action but eager to understand. You give him a questioning look and he smiles before giving you an answer.

"What is the egg now?"

With a question, anyway. You think long and hard, silently focusing all your attention on the creases of his shirt. You stare at the man's chest for a full minute and a half, determined not to make the same mistake again. You will answer honestly, yes; but you will also impress him- and possibly yourself- with a good answer. The subject isn't exactly new or difficult for him, you're sure. He will sometimes leave the house and not return for a day or two and when questioned, responds with an inconclusive _"Mm. Studying."_ You still aren't sure what that means and you feel it's best not to think too much about it, but surely it has something to do with these lessons of his, no?  
He's obviously studied this before, you think; you are operating on a much lower level than him and have a vague awareness of this. It just isn't as pronounced because the man insists on treating you as his equal. As far as he's concerned, you are both students capable of learning from each other every day. You hope to one day teach him something, and not by accident, as it tends to happen. Soon, perhaps. Maybe now.  
You look up at him with a determined look on your face, satisfied with your conclusion.

"An idea. The egg is an idea-"

"Why?"

You barely finish saying your answer when he's already questioning your reasoning. You'd be nervous if you didn't already know that his bluntness wasn't the result of annoyance, but of curiosity. He is eager to teach, yes, but he is more eager to _learn_. After all, a good teacher hasn't accomplished much if they haven't learned anything from their student.  
New ideas need to exist. In conversation, one should always aim to walk away with new information, a new perspective. Sometimes this information is given to you, other times you must take it; something he's given _you_ is the ability to think more critically. He's all but trained you to do so. It's much easier now to get into this mindset than it was when you first met the man. You're glad to have had the chance to practice this sort of thing at all; you don't think you could have done it with anyone else.

"Because there is ultimately no way for me to know if the egg still exists."

There really _is_ no way to be sure. The egg isn't a part of you any longer. You can no longer see it, or touch it. You can't hear it, either. It isn't _there_ anymore and having seen it being hidden, all that there is now is the suggestion of it's existence.  
Your answer was truthful and concise and you feel nothing else need be explained. When you search the man's face for any signs of contentment, you find none. No, what you find is something quite different. An absolutely _luscious_ smile, and those bedroom eyes.  
His voice turns low and he speaks clearer- a calm tone of voice that would make anyone submit if he asked them to.  
He's challenging you. Both begging and demanding you to win.

"But I _know_ the egg exists. I am telling you it does. Am I lying?"

His voice could be very seductive sometimes. Especially at times like this, when daring you to step further into his world.  
_His world_. One that was always bright and pleasant and _hid_ something underneath- a barely audible humming that you've managed to ignore until very recently. If there was such a thing as _feeling_ a lack of light despite there physically being none, you felt it every time the man dared you to chase him into his labyrinth.  
There was just something very visceral that would bleed through sometimes; in his eyes, his hand gestures, in his voice.

"It doesn't matter." you tell him, your words quick and blunt. He is amused. Shocked, even. You push away the rising bravado before it fully shows; don't want to jinx it now.  
Eyebrows raised, he gives you an impressed _"Oh?"_ and you continue, clarifying to back up your risky (despite yielding good results) answer.

"Assuming you are holding it in your hand right now, it's still an egg to you. By the mere act of touching it, it becomes a part of your realm of understanding; it exists to you, right now, as what it is- an egg."

You can't see it of course, but he's mindlessly stroking it with his thumb now, much like how you did at the start of this conversation. Both his hands are behind his back, resting on the counter he leans on. He listens intently.

"...You tell me it still exists, but that doesn't change what it's become to me. It stopped being an egg the moment you hid it from me. No matter what you know to be true, that reality isn't always going to be a shared one. You have an egg, I have an idea."

There can be many correct answers, he thinks. He doesn't believe in there being a single, ultimate truth about anything. If the self is all one can know, why is one's understanding of the universe not considered a reality in itself, one separated from what most consider the only reality? Your explanation follows this concept and he's thrilled that you've managed to go there without his help. He loves your answer, accepts it wholly as a perfect response. He's grinning.

"Ohhh très bien! Très bien, mon prince!"

The man is very open to loving. It's apparent in his near _moaning_ at the first sip of coffee in the morning, done exactly to his liking. Always ready to pour his love into anything that will receive it. It's fascinating, you think, if not a bit sad- he's so relentlessly willing to accept joy into his life, it makes you wonder if maybe he's lost something dear to him, and now knows to appreciate fully, the world that surrounds him. _‘Ah, I supposed that's wisdom, isn't it.'_ You push the thought away, for the image of him being _sad_ is all but disturbing to you- you don't know what you'd do if you ever hurt his feelings.

His praise is sincere and almost _heartfelt_ , you think. He enjoys things fully and without hesitation and you think this is admirable; few people can be so sincere in their happiness. He's laughing right now and you feel blessed suddenly; something about the way he expresses his joy is so _whole_. You can't help but smile; his satisfaction truly is a sight to behold.

His eyes open sweetly and slow, laughter quieting after a deep breath.  
"You know, I'm impressed. You touched on a subject I think about often."

You smile. "Really?"

"Mhmm." He proceeds to ask if you want the short or long explanation, to which you shrug with a _“Short, I guess"_ , and he gives you just that.

"It's an idea I play around with sometimes; when I'm bored and my mind starts wandering. It's, the rejection of an ultimate reality through the introduction of many. Many _specific_ ones. I've started calling them 'individual realities'- separate planes of existence that come to be through one's unique experience of the world. The 'individual' here meaning 'person'."

You are silent for a moment, your gaze locked on his hand and brows furrowed in concentration. He is silent with you, patiently waiting. He's already sighing in pleasure at the thought of thinking back to this talk; he'll be alone at a cafe, a café liégeois being placed on his table, the glass visibly cold from being put in the freezer instead of the refrigerator as they ought to do- that will be the new barista's fault. He will look at the glass for a moment after a quick _"Ah. Merci."_ , then chuckle at the memory of you. He will remember your voice, your childish curiosity, your questions (arguably his favorite of the three, for the mere fact that you have any at all). That will be weeks from now, and he will enjoy every second of it- all six and a half of them.

You've formulated a few questions in your head but are unsure if they're worth asking. You look up at him, that determined look decorating your face once more, the one that says you've come to a decision. "I'd like to hear the long explanation."

He smiles, gentle and warm.  
_But of course, mon cœur, of course. Anything for you.'_

A brief moment of the man looking into you, a sharp inhale and break of eye contact, and he speaks:  
"What we define as reality is actually a 'consensus reality'; we say things exist because most agree they do. There is too much we don't understand about the nature of _knowing_ ; we can't be sure what is or isn't real.  
This ignorance creates an enormous playground- space for theories to be created, ones that may or may not end up being true. Mind you, we'll probably never know." - and to this, from his lips, slips out the faintest chuckle - "I like playing with the idea- or theory, call it what you will- that within each individual, there is a reality separate from the consensus reality.  
You explained it beautifully yourself- 'no matter what you know to be true, that reality isn't always going to be a shared one'. Where my reality is A, your reality is B; both experiences of the same object true and real, but not the same. My theory rejects the existence of the consensus reality, stating that the only reality is the act of experiencing the universe.  
It can be a practical concept, too- when you bring empathy into the picture. How many arguments you think could be avoided if people were taught that 'reality' meant 'the way one experiences the universe'? We'd be much more inclined to listen to one another, don't you think, mon prince?"

That last part struck a chord. It's very true, you think. People often forget that in an argument, the truth is of little use when the other holds different beliefs. If there was no single, ultimate truth, nobody would waste their time trying to defend it or force anyone to see it. A universe without itself.  
The thought is so foreign to you that you can't immediately figure out if it would work or not- you suspect the technicalities of such a world could be flawed, but for some reason, this matters very little to you.

"What if it doesn't work?" you force yourself to ask anyways. You've a feeling part of you won't let this go. Best to take care of that now.  
"Hm?"  
"Your theory. A world like that. Is it... possible?"

He pauses to consider, staring at the floor then quickly turning his gaze to you the moment he reaches his conclusion.  
"...I don't know!" he states, with wide eyes and a fascination that seems more directed at himself than your observation.  
He finds it enjoyable- ignorance. It's a chance to learn, to explore and fall in love with the desire to know. He is a man who's learned with time to accept mysteries, love questions, and invite whatever necessary end knocks on his door. His not knowing elicits wonder, a childish eagerness for that which is possible, for adventure.  
"-but I don't think it matters." Smile. "It doesn't need to be possible to be explored, that's not the point of it."

"Then... what is?"  
Your curiosity is pure, in the sense that it isn't tainted with the fear of expectation- it is the curiosity of a child who does not yet understand society's definition of ignorance, a child who cannot yet empathize fully with an adult, a primal and deeply _innocent_ desire to know.  
You want to understand. You truly do want to learn and for him, that is the most precious gift you could give him- the desire to _receive_ in response to his often overwhelming desire to give. He could cry just thinking about it.

_‘I'm so glad to have chosen you.'_

He seems to glow at your question, and you swear you feel a sudden heat in your arms and chest when he reaches to hold your chin on his curled index finger, ghosting over your skin with his thumb, as he smiles- oh, that luscious smile once more- and responds:  
"To have fun."

You gaze in awe.  
His answer _fills_ you, his words so gentle and _musical_ that you can't help but let out a sigh of pleasure. What a wonderful man.  
You don't always understand what goes through his mind, but right now, that doesn't seem to matter. You're grateful for what he's decided to share with you and whatever secrets he keeps, you're willing to earn your way into uncovering. Incidentally, you might never be allowed to do so, and that's okay. Maybe questions don't always need answers; especially when they as beautiful a mystery as him.  
You are content with not knowing, with letting only the _potential_ of it all to satisfy you- the time spent with him a question itself, a process with different stages that are all very much meant to be enjoyed. Much like life itself, you muse. _'Stages...'_ Life is a journey and death is, if anything, a reminder that the destination is not what you ought to be focusing on.  
Answers are not needed. You can enjoy him as he is now.

"So!" the man interrupts your trance, grabbing the egg and tossing it up in the air, catching it in the same hand- "Scrambled or sunny side up?"

-and _oh_ , what a wonderful man he is indeed.

**Author's Note:**

> _Dec. 28 edit- Did necessary editing in spacing, added to notes._   
>  _Dec. 30 edit: Rewrote and fixed the issues with Crydamoure’s cherry talk, removed note regarding said paragraph, added to notes._
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> "Ángel de la guarda, dulce compañía, no me desampares, ni de noche ni de día..."  
> I was taught this prayer as a kid. To me, the words now feel familiar but _distant_ \- and this is how I imagine Guy feels about Crydamoure.
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> -The title translates to ‘Sweet Company’.
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> - _"You are seventeen years young, your skin is tight around your neck and your wrists feel no pain."_  
>  If you do any kind of work where you tense your hands/wrists often, _please do stretching exercises for your wrists_. One day, I decided I’d start drawing, writing and playing guitar every day- with weak wrists. I didn’t stretch them, and hurt them badly. I couldn’t hold cups or use a pen for about 2 months. It took me nearly 3 months to recover _enough_. It was terrible.
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> -Guy absolutely loves white grapes and does admit (to himself at least) that they are one of the very few things he can be greedy about.  
> -There may or may not be a reason why all of Crydamoure’s fruits are red.
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> -There is a reason why Crydamoure thinks cherries are naturally very sweet~
> 
> -I have been working on this fic since October. It is December. I removed almost as many words as the fic itself has. This year has been rife with lessons, especially these last few months. A lot of what I’ve learned I managed to insert into the fic, especially in Crydamoure’s character. Crydamoure embodies the most recent and important things I’ve learned.
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> -I have many ideas that didn’t make it into the fic. I want to do something with those, so. I might write more Guy and Cryda adventures, turning this into a series of sorts.
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> - _Dec. 28:_  
>  I was thinking about Dulce Compañia today. This fic needs re-writing, and I knew that when I posted it. Not posting this was causing me too much stress (for reasons I can’t say) and it was becoming unbearable.  
> I won’t remove it, but I will revisit it one day and rewrite/edit where needed.  
> I apologize for posting something I don’t consider finished; but it was necessary.


End file.
